


One Week With The Slipperys

by jjsngadget



Category: Fortysomething, House M.D., Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, i dont know where it's going, i had this idea, omg what is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjsngadget/pseuds/jjsngadget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's brother Edwin Slippery comes for a visit at 221b Baker Street. John learns some new things. Paul Slippery--I mean Greg House--might be a mind reader. Sherlock is definitely a mind reader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

On the first day, it started like any other. John woke, ate breakfast, and went to work. He saw fourteen patients, prescribed ten antibiotics and two pain killers, and saw a woman complaining of hearing a rattling noise every time she moved her head. At the end of the day, it was pouring rain, so John chose a cab instead of the ten minute walk to the tube station. 

Walking through the door of 221B, John could safely say he was not expecting to see the hallway filled to the ceiling with stuffed badgers, stacked end to end. There were even some crammed into the fireplace and under the table. The sight gave John pause as he hung his coat. He tried to decide if he really wanted to know why Sherlock needed so many stuffed badgers, and eventually gave up, figuring that as long as it was clean and didn’t interfere with his tea, Sherlock could do whatever he wanted to the badgers. 

Before he could climb the seventeen steps to their sitting room, the front door burst open with a flurry of rain and Sherlock ran up the steps three at a time. At the landing, John heard Sherlock rip the door open, the knob hitting the printer on the table behind with a thunk. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Sherlock asked. 

John followed his flatmate up and heard a drawling voice reply. “I don’t teach on Thursdays.”

“It’s Wednesday!” Sherlock snarled.

At the top, John saw a curly-haired young man sitting crosswise on the couch. The man grinned, insouciantly. “Actually, it’s Monday.”

It was a good thing John turned to the kitchen, if he had tried to enter though the sitting room, the door would have smashed into his nose when Sherlock closed it to hang his coat on the peg.

John glanced from one man to another. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely.” / “No, he’s leaving!” Two voices answered him.

John tutted and set the electric kettle, gathering supplies while the water boiled. “It’s raining buckets out there. He’ll catch cold.”

“Good!”

“Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock huffed and sat on John’s side of their shared desk, the better to stare and intimidate their visitor. It didn’t work. “When did you become so polite?”

“When did you become. . . Sherlock Holmes?” The man said the name with a sneer.

“Sherlock Holmes is a good name.”

“What was wrong with Rory Slippery?”

John shouted with pain as his hand slipped and burning water sloshed over the teacups and onto his fingers. He quickly ran cold water over his fingers. _Rory Slippery?!?_ If he hadn’t burned himself, he might have laughed. However, it would have been very guiltily. John was sure Rory Slippery was a perfectly good name, just not for someone who wanted to be taken seriously as a consultant. Rory Slippery would get laughed at and dismissed as soon as he introduced himself. Sherlock Holmes was a name with gravitas. It spoke of old money and the peerage. It shouted, ‘look at me, I know what I’m doing’. Sherlock had probably spent months researching the best name to both impress and overpower anyone who heard it.

“Actually, it was four weeks,” Sherlock came up behind John and finished the tea making. 

“And Mycroft?” John asked before he could stop himself. For all he knew, Mycroft’s birth name night be redacted under the Official Secrets Act. 

Sherlock’s face quite clearly showed what he thought of John’s thoughts. It was quite unnerving the way Sherlock could read minds.

“Mycroft used to be Daniel. Edwin here is the only one who refuses to change his name.”

“Do I look like a ‘Sherringford’?” There was a rustling noise, as Edwin’s curiosity took hold and he explored the flat. “I’m not ashamed to be a Slippery. I’m not the one who turned mum into a lesbian, you know.” This statement was followed by a shuffle, slide and crash, then a twang. The same twang a violin string makes as it’s snapped off the peg.

Sherlock whimpered, his expression darkened, and he adopted the look of older siblings everywhere who are confronted with the near overwhelming desire to kill. John had been on the receiving end of that expression many times when living with Harry. Harry being two years older and a girl thought she could play mum and boss John around, until he ripped off the heads of all her Barbie dolls and she punched him in the nose.

 

After tea was served and enjoyed, the atmosphere became quite strained. Sherlock stared at Edwin, who seemed perfectly happy to sit on the couch and play Angry Birds until the weather cleared. John busied himself with his laptop, while internally debating the merits of asking for more details about the Slippery family. At a glance from Sherlock, damn his mind reading, John decided it would be a better use of his time to blog. Though really, if having his laptop open and staring at the cursor blinking on a blank document was considered blogging. . . then. . . something very impossible would be true.

>   
> _Another Brother: Sherringford Holmes_   
> 

He though he saw Sherlock smirk over his screen, but when he looked up, Sherlock was once again staring holes through Edwin.

> _Just got a visit from Sherringford Holmes, the youngest brother. I am pleased to announce that Sherlock is a classic middle brother. . ._   
> 

  


“Oh for God’s sake, John.” Sherlock broke his train of thought and crashed it into the blog station wall. “If you’re going to type about me, don’t make things up. The quality of your blogs aside, you are not a fiction writer.”  


>   
> 
> 
> _Just got a visit from Sherringford Holmes, the youngest brother. The entire flat is quiet with the intense staring going on. It’s raining cats and dogs so we’re all trapped inside, and due to a falling bookshelf, Sherlock’s violin needs a new string. He is not happy, and neither am I. I’d prefer his unique brand of playing over this stifling quiet any day. He just gave me a look like he’s gonna use this blog as a counter-argument the next time I complain about the violin at 4 am. Curses._  
>  _Sherringford seems pleasant enough, classic youngest brother. Doesn’t seem to be doing anything other than texting and playing Angry Birds. Apparently, he teaches at a school. Sometimes._  
> 

  


John read over his entry. It wasn’t what he had planned to write, but it would do. He clicked the publish icon.


	2. Tuesday

On the second day, Edwin climbed the steps to the flat and stole John’s toast, all without saying a word. Sherlock chased him out of the kitchen and yelled down the stairs, “You should be in school!”

“Was he here overnight?” John asked, dipping a new piece of toast into his runny eggs.

“Possibly.”

 

At the surgery during John’s lunch break, he received a very strange call. It went something like this:

 **John** : Hello, this is John Watson.

 **Caller** : Are you sure? I’m looking for my son Edwin. He gave me this number. I’ve been trying   to reach him all day.

 **John** : And you are?

 **Caller** : Gregory House, Edwin’s dad. Have you seen him?

_Silence for a few seconds._

**John** : He was at breakfast, he stole my toast.

 **Caller** : He stole your. . .

_More silence, lots of murmuring_

**Caller** : Now see here! Are you sleeping with Edwin!

 **John** : What! NO!

_More silence, more murmuring._

**Caller** : Why not? He’s a very nice boy. I won’t have you breaking his heart.

 **John** : I only met him yesterday. I’m not going to sleep with people I’ve only met yesterday.

 **Caller** : Yesterday? Aren’t you living with him?

_Silence, and the sound of a head hitting a desk._

**John** : (muffled) I’m living with Sherlock.

 **Caller** : Which one’s Sherlock?

 **John** : Uh, Rory?

 **Caller** : Right, Rory’s the one with the flat-share. Mycroft told me about that. I’m always             forgetting things. . . Mycroft tells me you’re a doctor?

 **John** : Yes?

 **Caller** : Tell me, is it normal for a man not to remember the last time he had sex?

The call continued for quite some time, covering such vast subjects as motorcycles; class A narcotics and their availability in England; duets for violin and piano; and homosexuality and whether it was genetic, because he didn’t used to have these feelings for Wilson, honest, only every other Slippery turned out slightly gay, except for Edwin, but he seems more interested in “things that fall off the backs of lorries” and selling those items to people who buy “things that fall off the backs of lorries”.

By the end of the call, lunch had stretched to two hours, and John had a lot of patients waiting to be seen, and a huge international roaming charge coming on next month’s mobile service bill. A bill he was quite tempted to forward to Mycroft as a cost-of-living-with-your-brother-expense. Maybe it was time for that compensation Mycroft had once offered.

His phone lit up with a text.

_I’m afraid the offer has expired. - MH_

__Curse their mind reading.


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is short because nothing happens

On the third day, the badgers disappeared. This was a plus in John’s book.

 

John discovered Edwin living in 221C. This was not.


	4. Thursday

On the fourth day, misshapen and slightly crushed boxes filled the hallway. John discovered that each one held a different design of novelty tea kettle. He couldn’t figure out what Sherlock needed so many kettles for, unless it was to test each one for a case, or perhaps a monograph on Water Boiling Times in Oddly-Shaped Containers, or something like that. The man had a section of his web site devoted to tobacco ash for Pete’s sake, anything was possible.

John, having decided that he couldn’t trust Edwin alone in their flat (no matter how many times they locked the doors, he kept coming in), stayed behind while Sherlock went off to the latest crime scene. A man tied to a light pole with his own intestines and still alive, how exciting. Sherlock had nearly tripped down the stairs in his haste, though perhaps that was more to do with not wanting to spend another second with Edwin. John couldn’t see the problem. Other than the physical act of his lounging about their flat and stealing John’s toast, Edwin wasn’t disruptive to their lives.

Right now, he seemed perfectly content watching whatever movie he’d queued up on his laptop. He even used the headphones off the bison skull so he wouldn’t disturb John, who was perfectly content to stretch out on the couch, (a pleasure rarely available as Sherlock liked to commandeer the sofa almost every time he stayed in the sitting room) reading the latest novel in A Song of Ice and Fire.

He was just turning the page to the newest chapter, when the distinct step-step-tap of Mycroft climbing the stairs reached his ears. He sighed and sat up, another Holmes to deal with – this one with his own private navy, if Sherlock’s stories were to be believed.

Edwin paused his movie and looked up as Mycroft entered.

“Finally come to have sex with Sherlock’s boyfriend?” he asked gleefully.

John hurt his neck turning to Edwin so fast. “What?”

“Can I watch?”

Mycroft would have sighed, John could tell, but he held himself above such things. “Must you remain the same, Edwin? Everyone else has grown up, entered the adult world…”

“Hey, I’m an adult. I teach at a school and everything.”

“The school that had an anonymous complaint of asbestos? Of which none was found?”

Edwin shrugged. “The drywall looked a bit dodgy.”

Mycroft stared at him. Glaciers could melt with the intensity of that stare. “The school is reopening next Monday. I’m sure you’ll be there to welcome back your students.”

“Of course.” Edwin smiled.

Mycroft smiled back, it was not pleasant. He turned to John, said, “good afternoon, John,” and left.


	5. Friday

On the fifth day, the bell to 221B rang. It was a strong demanding ring, lasting many seconds; therefore not a client. John opened the door to a gruff man in jeans and a blazer.

“Are you John Watson?” he demanded in an American accent.

“Yes.”

“I’m Dr. Gregory House, we spoke on the phone,” the man proclaimed, pushing past John and up the stairs, leaning heavily on his cane on each step.

John froze and stared at Dr. Gregory House with his limp, and had a frightening realization. _Oh god, girls marry their fathers and boys marry their mothers. What does Sherlock do? Live with his father as flatmate._

Gregory turned sharply and stared at John. “What did you say?” The stare Gregory gave him was the same look Sherlock often gave clients while trying to ferret out their secrets.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you sure?”

John nodded.

Gregory’s face crumpled, “Oh god, it’s happening again.”

Sherlock climbed down the stairs to meet them, “If you remember, you no longer have your limp, John, so the only similarity between you and father is you’re both doctors.”

_Curse his mind reading._

“I know.” Gregory sighed helplessly. “Maybe it’s genetic?”

Sherlock and Gregory hugged on the half-landing.

John was close enough, he heard Sherlock whisper, “...I know some suppliers.” He wasn’t gonna ask, he wasn’t gonna ask, he wasn’t gonna ask. . .

Sherlock let Gregory climb the stairs while he stayed on the landing with John.

_Not gonna ask, not gonna ask. . ._

“He needs vicodin for pain management.”

“That’s illegal in England.”

“Then it’s a good thing father lives in America.”

The door opened, they heard Gregory say, “shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Asbestos, dad, school’s closed,” Edwin replied.

 

Dinner that night was at Angelo’s. While eating out was a good idea in many respects, (there wasn’t enough food or clean dishes for four people…and Mycroft. “Mycroft will eat like a pig,” Sherlock told John with relish.) eating at Angelo’s specifically was a mistake.

 First, it was the overly warm welcome Angelo gave them at he showed them to their table. “My boy!” he hugged Sherlock. Sherlock accepted this with the same grace he accepted all Angelo’s hugs. “John is finally meeting your father, eh. Such a big step. But when are you going to make it official, huh?”

John froze as the collective gazes of the Slipperys turned to him. “We’re not,” he stammered feebly. “Honest.”

Even Sherlock, who normally ignored such implications, looked as though he swallowed a live eel.

“I bring your menus.” Angelo left.

“Oooohoohoo,” Edwin crowed. “Just flatmates?”

John let his head bang on the table.

“Now now, none of that,” Mycroft chided. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Exactly!” John’s exclamation was slightly muffled.

“…though why you haven’t endeavored harder to clarify this matter for so many years…”

“Shut up, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “We get free food here. There is no sex at Baker Street, as you well know with all your cameras.”

Greg glared at his eldest son. “You bug their apartment, Mycroft?”

Edwin grinned. “Do you get off on John sleeping?”

John’s head snapped up. “Okay, seriously. What is this obsession with me and Mycroft?”

The table was suddenly silent.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, who stared at Edwin, who stared at Sherlock. Greg was staring at all the other patrons, quite confusedly.

The awkward silence grew and grew till finally, Sherlock threw down his napkin and left with a huff. When John saw none of the others was following Sherlock, he got up to chase after his flatmate himself.

 

John found Sherlock three streets over leaning against a skip and smoking a cigarette. He didn’t say anything or think anything, he just leaned against the alley wall so he could keep an eye on both the street and Sherlock.

“Sometimes I hate them so much.’ Sherlock dropped his cigarette and stamped it out.

John stayed silent, though he couldn’t help but think that everyone hated their family once in a while. Heck, he hated Harry all the time because of her alcoholism.

Sherlock gave him a look. “Did Harry ever steal your girlfriend and call you so you could hear them having sex?”

“Not the calling bit, no.”

“Of course. _“Maybe you liked her wife”_ Clara was yours first.”

“It’s frightening how you do that.”

Sherlock grinned his genuinely happy grin, which was sadly less photogenic on his face than his shamming grin. “It’s only frightening because you can’t do it.”

 

They stayed there silent, listening to the sounds of London life. Then,

“Mother’s in Corsica with Gwendolyn.”

John nodded. “I wasn’t wondering.”

“Weren’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Darn, thought I had that one.”


End file.
